The Happy Home for Ladies. Michele Gorman

      ‘You’re miles away,’ June says, pushing my hand towards the glass of Pinot Noir she’s just poured. ‘Do I dare ask?’

      ‘I’m just thinking about Mum.’ We’re sitting at a corner table in our local pub. We’ve been coming here ever since we got each other dodgy fake IDs for our sixteenth birthdays. We’d never have got away with that in such a small town if the man who took over the business hadn’t been from outside the area. And short-sighted and desperate for business.

      Even without the early memories, this is still my kind of pub: full of old wood panelling and mismatched tables and chairs, with soft lighting and no fruit machines or TVs showing football. Just lots of familiar faces and the happy buzz of conversations going on all around us.

      I’m in my chef whites as usual, but June looks nice. She always wears smart trousers that suit her slender figure, and trendy tops – sometimes floaty and sometimes, like tonight, with cutaway shoulders, depending on what’s hot in Glamour – and she wouldn’t be caught dead in my clogs or with her hair scraped back in a ponytail. I probably embarrass her with my checked trousers and overuse of dry shampoo.

      When June pulls her mouth into the sympathetic I’m-listening pout that she uses whenever one of the residents has a whinge, the guilt sweeps over me. She’s mistaking my words for nice, normal, missing-Mum-now-that-she’s-gone thoughts.

      ‘It will get better,’ June says. ‘It has only been a few months.’

      I take a deep breath. ‘I wish it was that easy.’ But when she reaches for my arm, I say, ‘No, it’s not what you think. I’m really pissed off with her.’

      ‘For dying? That’s normal. It’s one of the stages of grief, remember the notes?’

      She gave me a packet of papers after Mum died. June likes to be prepared for everything. With handouts. ‘Yeah, but that’s not why I’m angry. Which means it’s not normal and I’m some kind of freak of a daughter.’ Even though I hate admitting that, in a way it feels good to get it out. It feels so good that, once I start, I can’t stop myself. Even though June knows all this, she’s happy to listen.

      I knew I wasn’t cut out for uni years before I breathed a word to my parents. I’m not like my brother, Will. By which I mean I’m not academically-minded or completely afraid to go against our parents. He was making plans for uni while he was still in primary school. But I’d discovered cooking by the time I was that age, and I loved every bit of it. Even the tedious prep work and the cleaning up. The idea of turning a bunch of ingredients into something completely different seemed like magic. It still does.

      ‘Everyone’s parents drive them bonkers, right, even though we love them?’ June nods at my question. ‘I mean, sometimes I couldn’t stand Mum when she was being so judgmental. Especially after the bistro burned down.’

      One minute I was running my own kitchen, feeling like all the hot and sweaty work, awful early hours and miserly pay cheques were worth it. More than worth it. I was on top of the world.

      And the next minute it was all gone. I was no longer a chef.

      The worst part was that it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t poisoned any critics or passed off horsemeat burgers or even taken our success for granted. Every single dish that came out of the kitchen was made with the same love and commitment. Then one stupid wiring fault put half a dozen people out of work, ruined a business and my career for a while.

      That’s when I really needed the support, but Mum acted like the fire was the best thing that could have happened to me. She thought her daughter might finally make her proud. Now I could get a proper job, she’d said. That place was holding me back, she’d said.

      We argued, Mum and I. A lot. That place was where I’d built my chef career. That place was where I was happiest. So, when Jen decided that she wasn’t going to bother to rebuild it, or find another building to reopen… well, you can imagine.

      It was all well and good that she and her boyfriend were going to move to France. Hurrah for amour and all that. She’d been less interested in the restaurant since they’d started going out anyway, but what was I supposed to do now?

      Mum and Dad thought they had the answer. I could buy out Jen and own the bistro myself. It might not be as good as being a banker like my brother, but it was a start. At least I’d be a businessperson instead of just a cook.

      They wouldn’t accept that I love being a cook. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve got no interest whatsoever in being a businessperson, even when that business is a restaurant. I’d watched Jen struggle with all the paperwork and worry about hiring and firing. The taxes and business rates and marketing. No, thank you. I just want to cook food that people love to eat. That’s why I went to school, not to end up a business owner who also cooks.

      I think that was the last straw for my parents.

      ‘You never got a break,’ June agrees. ‘And it was unfair because of the way they treated Will, like he was the golden boy who could do no wrong. That would have pissed anyone off.’

      ‘It still does,’ I say. ‘But what am I supposed to do about it now? I can’t yell at her, can I? Or make her realise she was wrong, that I love what I do. I’m perfectly happy. I missed my chance to make her understand, and now I’m stuck with all this… stuff. Where’s it all supposed to go?’

      ‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ June says. ‘Would it make you feel better to yell at her grave? I’d go with you, so at least we’d both look deranged.’

      That’s a true friend. We both laugh at the idea. It feels good.

      She glances at her phone as it vibrates on the table. ‘Please tell me you’re seeing Callum soon,’ I say. I can tell by her smile that it’s his text. ‘When are you going to stop torturing the poor bloke?’

      She giggles. ‘Believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts him. I’d jump on him every second of every day if I could.’

      ‘You can,’ I remind her. ‘Speaking as someone who hasn’t done any jumping in ages, why wouldn’t you?’

      It’s a rhetorical question. We’ve been over June’s entire strategy a million times, but I let her tell me anyway. ‘Because the more I keep him at arm’s-length, the keener he seems to be. I can’t suddenly throw myself at him now. He’d run a mile.’

      ‘But June, don’t you want someone who throws himself back at you when you do that? If he’s only interested because you’re acting like you don’t care, then that’s not an honest relationship. Don’t look at me like that,’ I say at her hurt expression. ‘I’m not saying that’s why he likes you. I’m saying he’d probably be insanely nuts about you anyway so you don’t have to pretend. Then again, I’m the last person who should be giving you relationship advice.’

      ‘It does no good to keep beating yourself up, you know,’ she says. ‘You made one error in judgment. Nick’s not holding a grudge, so you shouldn’t, either.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘I mean a grudge against yourself, and you are. Let it go. You’re just as close as you ever were and I’m sure he doesn’t even think about it now.’

      I shake my head. ‘I’m sure he does still think about it and it wasn’t an error in judgment. It was a massive foul-up.’